Breathless on the Beach. Wendy Etherington

red. “You’re a devil,” she said in a musical Irish accent.

      He grinned. “I try, Mrs. K, I try.”

      She straightened an already perfect bowl of fruit that was sitting on the center island, then pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured him a glass. “We have a real chef coming for the weekend.”

      Noting her awed tone, Jared leaned against the counter. “Do we?”

      “Sometimes Lenny’s cousin comes in to help with the cookin’—he works at some chain restaurant in the city.”

      “Lenny?”

      “Mrs. Rutherford’s chauffeur. More usual, it’s me making chicken salad.” She paused and sighed. “Or Master Richard fires the grill.”

      Since Jared had worked for Rose Rutherford several times in the past, he’d gotten a healthy, but not always pleasant, dose of her son, Richard. Wanting to be called “master” while not being one in any way described him entirely. Richard had started Rutherford Securities with his family’s money and influence, and at least had the sense to hire people who knew what they were doing. While he’d been busy decorating his office and having power lunches with his country club golfing buddies, the company became a success—heaven knew how.

      He’d be eaten alive by a slow-moving, milk-producing cow on any ranch worth a damn.

      “Those nights we wind up ordering from a restaurant in town,” Mrs. K finished.

      “But not this weekend.”

      “No.” Her expression brightened. “Shelby’s a caterer in the city, and her supplier brought the most wonderful ingredients. I can’t wait to see what she does with them.”

      “It’ll be a barn burner, I’m sure.”

      Mrs. K swatted his arm. “Oh, go on with ya, Jared dear, I think Mrs. Rutherford was aiming for something more sophisticated. She made it clear she wants the good silver, crystal and china set out each night.”

      “Uh-huh.” Based on the range of high-energy activities he’d been hired to pull off, he thought the guests would be lucky to sit upright at the end of the day, much less enjoy elegant entrées prepared by a city chef. “So this is an adventure weekend for gourmets?”

      “You know Master Richard. He likes his appearances.”

      So why hadn’t the Rutherfords plopped a captain at the wheel of their yacht and taken their guests for cocktail-filled rides along the coast?

      Because Richard was determined to prove his manhood.

      Jared just hoped his insurance rider would cover accident by arrogance.

      “I expect gourmets will be all over,” Mrs. K said, continuing her unnecessary straightening of the kitchen knickknacks. “The chef’s a friend of Victoria Holmes.” She raised her blond-going-gray eyebrows. “Quite the family.”

      Jared knew the influential Holmes crowd. At the direction of Victoria’s mother, Joanne Holmes, and the family’s charity foundation staff, he’d once put on a ranch fantasy weekend for a group of their benefactors. Finding the lady cold and distant, he’d put all his effort into giving the city-born teens the country experience of a lifetime.

      Despite dealing with the occasional difficult client, however, he loved his business—though he didn’t have to work at all. He had assets as solid as his weekend employers’.

      But Mrs. K couldn’t know about that.

      No one save his accountant, his office manager and his immediate family knew he didn’t just work at Flaming Arrow Adventure Tours, he owned it.

      He’d come to the Rutherford estate for the house party because he genuinely liked Rose, and organizing wild weekends for high-powered executives was as good a challenge as any.

      Fighting frustration with city people who looked down on those who worked with their hands had simply become part of the job. His hands, as well as his father’s and grandfather’s, had made them millionaires many times over. Hard work made the results all the more satisfying.

      Maybe that was why Richard annoyed him so much. He always seemed determined to take the easy route.

      “Where are Rose and Richard?” he asked the housekeeper.

      She scrubbed a spot on the marble counter that Jared couldn’t see. “They’re gettin’ ready for the guests. Mrs. Rutherford had a stylist come out to select all her clothes for the weekend. They should be finished soon.”

      A stylist who made house calls on holiday weekends and picked out a grown woman’s clothes for her as his mother had for him. When he was four. It was a strange, strange world sometimes.

      Footsteps sounded on the back stairs, and seconds later Ruthanne, Richard’s wife, strolled in. Dressed in a bright floral dress and gold jewelry, and carrying a wide-brimmed straw hat, she radiated youthful energy and was the perfect contrast to her husband’s overblown self-importance.

      “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she asked.

      “Yes, Ms. Ruthie.” Mrs. K crossed to the fridge. “I made lemonade this morning. Would you like some?”

      She smiled broadly. “How sweet. Yes, thank you.”

      “The Jet Skis are ready whenever you want to take a ride,” Jared said.

      “We’ll probably wait until after tea.” Ruthie accepted an ice-filled glass from Mrs. K. Pausing before taking a sip, she said, “You remember the guests aren’t actual daredevils like you.”

      Jared snapped his fingers. “Damn. There goes my plan to hang glide off the nearest lighthouse.”

      Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass as Ruthane whirled. “Jared, you’re not really—”

      He held up his hand. “I know how to handle tenderfoots.”

      “They’re not all that delicate,” Ruthie said, linking arms with him. “You’ll like …” She stopped as she noticed the housekeeper on her hands and knees. “Mrs. Keegan, what are you doing down there?”

      “The lemonade, Ms. Ruthie.” She rose and tossed the paper towel she held in the trash. “A chef’s kitchen should be spotless.”

      “This kitchen is always spotless, and there’s no need to put on airs for my friends.” Ruthanne’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Though I’m not sure about this last-minute couple my husband invited.”

      Distracted by the sun’s glare through the back window, Jared wished he’d followed his first impulse and laid out on the dock instead of heading for the house. He’d always rather be outside.

      “Jared?” Ruthie said, drawing his attention. “You’ll like my guests. Richard has some business thing going on, as usual, but we’re determined not to let the weekend be boring. Who wants to sit around a stuffy old boardroom all day?”

      “Some do.” He shook his head. “Can’t imagine why.”

      “Naturally, that’s where you come in.”

      “My favorite spot.”

      Ruthie patted his forearm. “You’re looking fit as always. What diet are you on?”

      “The Jet Ski riding, hang gliding one.”

      She sighed, leading him to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. “I have to watch every bite I eat. I must be crazy to invite Shelby out here.”

      The words were barely out of her mouth before the intercom on the wall buzzed. “Rutherford residence,” Mrs. K answered.

      “Victoria Holmes, Shelby Dixon and Calla Tucker at the gate to see Ruthanne Rutherford.”

      Mrs. K pressed a code on the numbered panel. “Yes, we’re expecting you. Come up the driveway, please.”